


l'espoir fait vivre

by Kalgalen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Other, Pre-Slash, it's just for all yall who ever wanted to support jon directly, vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:15:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22897087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/pseuds/Kalgalen
Summary: In the end, the eyes of the Archivist are only those of a tired man. They do feel incredibly sharp, like pins sticking a butterfly's wings to a corkboard as your psyche is exposed bare to his interest - but it lasts only for a moment. He decides you aren't a threat, and his gaze is blunt with exhaustion as he tilts his head in greeting."There isn't much left here, I'm afraid," he says, voice made rough with disuse."I know," you answer quickly. "I came to see you."
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Reader
Comments: 24
Kudos: 100





	l'espoir fait vivre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cerisiers_roses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerisiers_roses/gifts).



> A while ago Lottie complained about there not being many jon/reader fics  
> And since I'm a good friend i wrote one 💖

The Magnus Institute is about as imposing as you had expected it to be from what you've learned from the tapes. It isn't the biggest building in the street you're standing on by far - but even then it seems to loom, weighting on the fabric of the universe like a cannonball on a shift. You remember a quote about knowledge being power being energy being matter being mass; it would make sense that the temple of a nightmarish entity of Knowing would have the effect of a small black hole over the reality built around it.

It isn't scary, exactly; _intimidating,_ rather. The edifice is daring you to enter, promising you won't like what you'll find inside while sure that you won't resist the curiosity. You find the feeling unnerving, and more than a little irritating. You huff before stepping toward the entrance, brows furrowed in defiance. You came all this way already, you aren't about to turn around because an old pile of stonework is looking _smug_ at you.

The door is more recent than the rest of the building, and it is unlocked. It opens without a sound when you push it. There's no one at the reception desk - or anywhere you can see, for that matter. The entrance hall is silent and shrouded in darkness; the light filtering through the windows pierced high in the walls reveals particles of dust suspended in the still air, and not much else. It feels like you've just entered a sanctuary you don't quite belong in, and you put an extra effort into not making any noise as you push deeper into the institute, looking for a specific set of stairs you can picture perfectly even though you've never actually seen it.

You don't think too much about where your steps are leading you; in the absence of concrete information, the best solution seems to be trusting your instinct. You walk by closed doors and empty offices, ignore a couple of corridors branching out from the main one until you feel a pull as you approach a particularly dark one. You do not hesitate before engaging on that path; this is what you came here for.

The stairway leading down to the Archives is clean, save for a couple of translucent spiderwebs. You look at those with distaste as you walk down the stairs.

You start feeling some trepidation again as you get to the bottom of the stairwell, where a large doorway greets you. The letters nailed into the top beam spell out the word ARCHIVES, and you pause to look at it. Despite everything you've heard, you're not quite sure what you're expecting to find inside. There's a very real possibility that you've idealized it, and you find yourself bracing for disappointment - but then you catch yourself, and shake your head. There's no point in this way of thinking.

The Archives themselves are marked with the same inscrutable, near-holy atmosphere than the rest of the building, increased tenfold by the impossible height of the ceiling. This is a cathedral, a temple built to frightful fears and to the victims they claimed; you step into it with near-reverence, half by respect of the horrors contained in those high shelves, half from the fear of awakening them yourself. You can't help but stop by the abandoned desks - you know their history, you guess who they used to belong to with a simple glance. You trace a playful heart in the dust covering the one that's decorated with a desiccated cactus, and the simple fact that you can do something as silly without immediately being struck by a horrible fate makes you feel a bit less anxious.

There's a door nearby - unmarked, unassuming, just barely cracked open. The nervousness is back full strength, coursing through your arms, making your fingers pick at the hem of your coat as you gather the courage to move forward; the horrible fear that the office might be empty, or that you might not find the person you've been looking for - or that you _might,_ perhaps- points the tip of its nose again. You square your shoulders, and step forward.

The door creaks on its hinges when you push it. Strangely enough, it isn't an ominous sound; rather, it feels like a welcome. Like recognition. The man behind the desk - because there _is_ a man there - doesn't look up. He's bent over some papers spread in front of him, one hand supporting his head, the other laying on a tape recorder. He looks rather like the mental image you've made of him during those hours of listening to the tapes, slowly uncovering the events that have led to the apocalypse. He appears older than you know he actually is, his face lined with worry and the gray adorning his temples slowly gaining on the rest of his hair. He wears his scars well, like they're a part of himself he's accepted long ago, self-consciousness evaporated under more pressing concerns.

You clear your throat, and he raises his eyes with a start. You've been wondering what those eyes would look like for a long time; would they pierce right into your soul? Would they make you feel like an ant under a microscope, small and known, just a packet of information? Would they look like human eyes or would they glow, bright even in the darkness?

In the end, the eyes of the Archivist are only those of a tired man. They do feel incredibly sharp, like pins sticking a butterfly's wings to a corkboard as your psyche is exposed bare to his interest - but it lasts only for a moment. He decides you aren't a threat, and his gaze is blunt with exhaustion as he tilts his head in greeting.

"There isn't much left here, I'm afraid," he says, voice made rough with disuse.

"I know," you answer quickly. "I came to see you."

Does this make you sound too eager? He looks taken aback by the confession, and he blinks, at a loss for words.

"I listened to the tapes," you supply helpfully. "I needed to meet you."

The Archivist - the Archive - _Jon_ smiles a pale smile. 

"I'm not sure what you want from me, but I am fairly certain I can't help." A shrug. "Except if you want vengeance, in which case I suppose -" 

"No!" you interrupt forcefully. "I don't - I don't want to hurt you." The thought of it is almost funny; you, hurting a man who's been kicked around by monsters who would have swallowed you whole if you'd crossed their path? You wouldn't know where to start even if you wanted to - and you most definitely don't.

You search for the words to express the feelings you've been dwelling on during your long trip, and settle for a simple: "I'm sorry."

Jon tilts his head on the side quizzically, waiting for you to go on. When you don't, he raises an eyebrow. 

"What…for?" he says slowly.

"For -" you swallow nervously; maybe mentioning bad memories isn't the best way to go. You forge on, though: "- for everything that's happened to you."

That baffles him. He blinks at you, confused, then goes: "Huh."

The silence that follows is extremely awkward, and you fiddle with the hem of your coat as he stares at a point left of your head.

"No one's ever said that," he says finally. "Everybody tends to think I've brought this on myself."

"Even Martin?" you can't help but ask. He seems surprised again.

"You know about -" he interrupts himself as his eyes fall on the tape recorder purring on his desk. "Oh. Of course you do." He looks self-conscious, then; you can almost see him think about every single moment he's spent with both Martin and a tape recorder. Despite your curiosity, you decide to put an end to his suffering. 

"So? Does he think you deserve it?" you ask again, an edge of challenge in your tone. He might not believe you, a total stranger, but surely he'll trust his partner's judgement.

He shrugs, apparently still unconvinced. "I suppose not. But then again, he's always been too lenient with me." He chuckles in a way that's half-fond, half self-depreciative. "Too much faith I'm not sure I've done anything to earn."

"You don't need to do anything for people to have faith in you," you say forcefully. "Faith isn't something you earn. What you do doesn't matter, as far as faith is concerned. We're the ones who decide whether we want to put that trust in you or not - and we do. Just accept it."

You've taken a step forward, and another, during that rant, until you find yourself right in front of the desk. Jon is looking up at you, surprised; then he smiles, and if it still looks tired, there's also a hint of fondness there now. Your heart is beating fast, and you're unsure whether it's due to your passionate explanation, or - something else.

"You're very sure of yourself," he says, leaning his head in the palm of his hand. "You don't really know me. You only know what the tapes told you. Is that enough to develop that kind of feelings?" 

_Well._ You breathe in to keep yourself from speaking too fast, and breathe out some of the tension that's making you vibrate slightly in place. 

"It hasn't shown me only the nice things," you say, challenging. "You could even say they showed you at your worst." He cringes at that, and you quickly add, regretting your curtness: "But they also showed me you fighting it, and almost getting out. They showed me resistance, even as the world came crumbling down. They showed me what I've been looking for all my life."

You stop, a bit breathless. The Archivist's eyes are shining in a way that has nothing to do with the supernatural.

"And-" he sounds a bit strangled, clears his throat before continuing - "what would that be?" 

"Hope," you say simply.

He looks a bit haggard, a bit lost - not unlike what you had imagined him to look like after he had started the apocalypse. He's got a hand over his mouth, which he uses to quickly wipe away the tear that finally started rolling down his cheek. He isn't looking at you.

"What have you come looking for?" he asks at last, sounding a bit more like himself.

"You," you repeat. It feels more natural the second time around. "Just for you."

"And did you find what you wanted?" He looks back at you. He's hoping not to have disappointed you. 

You smile. "Everything I expected and more."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed UwU find me on [tumblr](https://kalgalen.tumblr.com/) or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kalgalen) (or anywhere else) @ kalgalen!


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